I file, and maybe overfile
The wire of gold assay'd;
My master grumbles all the while,—
Her shop the mischief made.
To ply her wheel she straight begins,
When not engaged in trade;
I know full well for what she spins,—
'Tis hope guides that dear maid.
Her leg, while her small foot treads on,
Is in my mind portray'd;
Her garter I recall anon,—
I gave it that dear maid.
Then to her lips the finest thread